


Balance

by scalphunter



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Denial, Drama, Fluff and Angst, Frustration, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:13:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalphunter/pseuds/scalphunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles leans into Erik's touch. He's tired; it's been a long day and he's sleepy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Cherik pic from xxsatinangelxx.

Charles leans into Erik's touch. He's tired; it's been a long day and he's sleepy and Erik wants to - well he wants to do many things and Charles is soft and pliable, _submissive_. His hand slides over Erik's arm and up to his shoulder, making a path of syrupy slowness that only ever comes with exhaustion, and to his shoulder, grasping, thoughts inadvertently leaking into Erik's consciousness. Erik would be annoyed if he didn't just want to wrap him up and keep him close. There's a vivid ease to Charles' touch, as though they've been lovers for years, lived through entire timelines together, know each other.

'You're leaking' Erik says lowly.

Charles' breath tumbles out and he smiles, his cherry red lips part for a fraction of second, showing teeth. Erik brushes the pads of his fingers along Charles' jaw, the digits twitching to seek more skin, or the softness of his chocolate brown hair. The telepath hums softly, like a cat, unapologetic, and so Erik swipes his thumb down, over the corner of Charles' mouth. Charles' breath hitches, sticking in his throat, and Erik stops. This keeps occurring between them and Erik is at a loss as to what to do. He has never been overtly physically affectionate with anybody, however where this idealistic idiot with a PhD and a good heart is concerned, Erik is drawn and aches to memorize the freckles he knows dance down Charles' back. He's hungry to claim that goodness and ruin Charles, strip all the prim Oxford education away and leave the man he craves. A raw emotion surges through Erik's mind; it's unmistakably territorial.

Their relationship is a form of symbiosis.

Charles sways closer and this entire - quite what this is he doesn't know, Charles is a distraction which he welcomes - venture? is balancing on the head of a pin.

'It has been a rather ridiculously long day' Charles sighs, nuzzling to push into Erik's palm.

'You must insist on working with cerebro for lengths of time-' Erik admonishes, tracking the way a flop of Charles' hair slips along his eyes. There have been instances, flashes so hot, where he wishes to grab hold of a fistful of that hair and just _pull,_ entertaining the possibility of how Charles would respond.

Charles shifts under Erik's hands.

'Call it innate curiosity' he says, defensively, and they have had this argument many times over, the winner decidedly undecided.

'I'd call it innate insanity. You're pushing yourself too hard, Charles' Erik replies. There's a cadence to his voice; one which he'd like not to examine too closely.

'Is that not what I said to you?' his query is matched with a quirk of his eyebrow that is so quintessentially Charles.

He's right, of course, although Erik's admittance of this would imply that neither of them is apt at practicing that which they preach.

 _\-- An affliction of the male sex, according to Raven, not quite her wording though --_ emanates from Charles, Erik bows his head.

'She has a point' Erik concedes lightly.

'So does _Descartes_ , this does not connote to my agreeing that as the essence or nature of a mind is to think, where thought is the mind's defining feature or the mind's principal attribute' Charles grumbles, frowning. 

'If you wish to continue this, may we do so tomorrow? His theory of extensional attributes comparing the mind and body will not disappear. You, my friend, might'

\-- _I shan't if I have you --_

Charles believes in him, looks at Erik as if he's puzzling together all the pieces and once he is left with a picture, a tableau, he never wants to look away. It's monumentally terrifying.

There's movement directly outside the room and Erik can _feel_ the hinges on the door creak before the door opens. He turns his head to the intrusion, ready to tell whoever it is to not so kindly 'go away' until he sees it's Moira.

Moira freezes, eyes on Charles and then Erik, and something shifts in her expression and the tension-filled air pushes against them, as though everything around them is about to crumble, and that this could be _all he is allowed_. He keeps a heavy, flat gaze, challenging her to do or say anything. He's aware, in a peripheral kind of way, that Moira is frightened of him. She nods silently and disappears. Erik is, for once, grateful for her tact.

He looks back and Charles' smile has broadened and he makes a contented noise.

'Thank you-' Charles mumbles and Erik loses the rest of what the other man says to his jumper as Charles encircles him, latching onto his jacket, face into the crook of Erik's neck.

'You need a bed, Charles, preferably one not in the West Parlor' he teases, half truthfully, remembering their drunken wanderings around the estate at ungodly hours, and the early morning sun streaming through, splattering Charles in ethereal light. God. Charles had twirled about and beamed at him in complete unabashed happiness.

 

 _(It began with a chess game, a Russian opening style, and a bottle of wine from the cellar that_ _is French. Charles's cheeks blossomed red, the wine sullying his pale-English complexion and enhancing the wetness of his pout. Erik's mental shields are not made of steel - unfortunately - and he's sure that Charles is too busy going through stratagems in his head with regards to his rook and knight, to pay attention to him. He is careful not to broadcast, knowing when Charles receives a thought or projection he_ _never in his life wanted._ _Charles moves his second knight purposefully, arching his back as he swigs from his glass.  
_

_'For a scientist you are remarkably illogical sometimes' Erik had said, pushing his bishop along and sending Charles' knight careening off the board._

_Whoops._

_'Do try to facilitate more control, my friend' Charles had mocked, smiling boyishly.  
_

_'Checkmate in five' he had responded, stubbornly._

_'I like your optimism' and if he were talking to anybody else but Erik, the droop of Charles' lashes could be flirtatious, suggestive._

 

_It's not checkmate in five._

_Erik loses in sixteen moves, it's early morning, they have depleted two bottles of wine and a bottle and a half of Charles' finest scotches, and Erik is temporarily confused which leads him to be manhandled and bodily moved out of the study by a drunk Charles._

_Erik walks slower than Charles, with more grace, and basks in the sight of Charles Xavier, PhD, waltzing the corridor with an entrancing sway of his hips, leading them to god knows where. Erik is perhaps more sober than his comrade - this is what he tells himself, otherwise he may give into the urge of hauling Charles' in a shadowed area of the mansion and kissing him._

_Charles takes a wobbly right turn, towards the library or lounge, and twirled about, beaming at him...)_

 

Erik shakes his head.

'Take me home. **You** can drive this time' Charles says, lifting his head up ever so, and Erik sighs, and does what he'll always do when Charles asks him things in that voice - he complies.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First actual posted Cherik fic. Hope it isn't too bad. 
> 
> Comments/kudos are most welcome :)


End file.
